As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.
Thus I die. Thus, thus, thus. Now I am dead, Now I am fled, My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light. Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die.
Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
One travels long distances not solely for large gatherings, but for something more intangible. I have always gone out on a limb for love. A dangerous, romantic, disappointing way to live.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger.
You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.
True love cannot be found where it truly does not exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
Out, damned spot! out, I say!
We burn daylight.
O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
So fair and foul a day i had not seen.
How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Iago.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.